Figaro
by rhododendron
Summary: Modern-day AU. Arthur's an opera singer. Um. "Arthur smiles at him, like Merlin’s opinion matters at all when the whole nation’s calling your name in loud, obnoxious Italian."


**title**: Figaro

**disclaimer: **Merlin does not belong to me, and no copyright infringement is intended.

**summary**: Modern-day AU. Arthur's an opera singer. Um.

Merlin meets Arthur Pendragon at a theater in Camelot. Specifically, in a dressing room in a theater in Camelot, where he is tasked with "helping the pompous ass with whatever he needs." Gaius, the theater's manager, isn't usually the type to order people around, but Merlin supposes maybe he's got the right this time; Arthur Pendragon is one of the most famous opera singers in the world, and just one night's sales for his performance of Figaro will bring the entire theater out of debt.

Arthur is waiting in the room when he arrives; the man is tall and blonde and arrogance practically seeps out of his pores. Merlin likes him immediately.

"I thought aides were supposed to be here _early_," Arthur drawls, looking up from his inspection of his costume, which is hanging on a hook on the wall.

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Pendragon," Merlin says, feeling anything but. "If you'd turn around for me?" Arthur does, and Merlin quickly gets the costume on, tightening the laces and straightening the seams, and sends him off to makeup.

The night of the second performance, Arthur is just as cold.

The night of the third performance, he looks worried; he keeps clearing his throat and drinking from an enormous water bottle. Merlin frowns and leaves partway through the job, leaving Arthur with half a vest on and his shoes untied. He returns minutes later with a mug of hot tea, milk, and honey, and presses it into Arthur's hands. "It's disgusting, but it'll help with your voice," he says, and Arthur looks surprised but drinks it anyway.

The night of the fourth performance, Arthur is more relaxed, and when Merlin finishes smoothing his hands over the creases in the costume, he turns around and says "Thank you for the tea last night." It sounds like it's an effort for him to admit that Merlin could actually help with anything, but Merlin just says "you're welcome" and smiles, and that's that.

The night of the fifth performance, Arthur's manager Uther corners Merlin in the hallway and proceeds to dress him down for giving Arthur the tea, though Merlin's not exactly sure what was wrong about it. Arthur catches sight of them at the end of the corridor and strides over, trying to calm Uther down, but the older man overrides his protests and starts expounding on Arthur's duty as a performer and the necessity of taking care of his voice. Arthur looks defeated when he's finished, defeated enough that Merlin gives him a smile, and everything is okay again.

.

The last performance is always the best, and Arthur practically _floats _back into his dressing room where Merlin is waiting. His cheeks are flushed and he's wide-eyed, smiling broadly. Merlin rolls his eyes and fights to keep down the stupid smile that's threatening to break out on _his _face.

"Did you listen?" Arthur asks, ignoring Merlin's less-than-enthusiastic expression.

"Yes, yes, very good, Mr. Pendragon," he says in a bored tone, motioning with his finger for Arthur to turn around so he could get at the laces on the back of the shirt. "Such a _voice_, Mr. Pendragon. Such a _talent_."

"Hah," Arthur laughs, a loud bark that makes Merlin jump slightly. "Not a fan of opera?"

"It gives me a headache," Merlin says peevishly, and knows that he's being kind of an ass, but he can't really help it. Still, Arthur's shoulders slump almost imperceptibly, and there's a silence before he says, in a very small voice, "Oh."

"It was... alright," he says grudgingly. "I mean, it wasn't totally... you were very.... I liked it."

"Really?" Arthur asks, like Merlin's opinion matters at all when the whole nation's calling your name in loud, obnoxious Italian.

"Yeah," he says anyway, and Arthur twists around to smile at him. Merlin's stomach does a few flips and finishes with a rather acrobatic tumble that makes his returning smile look a little demented. Arthur doesn't seem to notice. "So, ah, what are you doing after this?" he asks, when the other man has turned back around and the silence grows a little long. "Arms up." He lifts the shirt over the Arthur's head and tries not to look to closely at the broad shoulders it reveals.

"Well, Pavarotti's having a sort of party thing at his manager's house, so I thought I'd go to that, and then maybe one of the bars the concierge recommended- you should come with me," he said suddenly, changing tack.

"Me? No, I-"

"Why not? It'd be fun, and I don't know my way around this place at all," Arthur says, shrugging the button-down shirt on. Merlin's glad that he doesn't need to button it for him; he's not sure what would happen if he put his hands on Arthur's chest, but he's pretty sure it would be awkward.

"Thanks, really, but my, ah, my aunt is having surgery tomorrow so I really need to-"

"Merlin, if you don't want to go out with me, just say so." Arthur's voice is cold. "Don't make up excuses."

"It's not- look, it's not you. I just- you barely know me," Merlin says, heaving a sigh. "And I'm an aide, not a star. It would just be... uncomfortable. And I don't fancy getting left by the buffet table with me, myself, and a glass of wine to keep company."

"Is that all?" Arthur laughs, turning around to face him. "Look, we'll skip the party and just go to a bar or something. I promise, Merlin, that I will not leave you tonight." It feels like there's something left unsaid in the statement, but Arthur's eyes are sincere, and Merlin gives up.

"Okay. Fine. Yes."

.

.

And, despite the fact that five hours later he finds himself supporting a very, very drunk Arthur, Merlin doesn't regret the decision.

"So I was good?" Arthur asks, practically hanging off him. The younger man shifts his hold on him, wrapping his arm more securely around his neck and tightening his grip on Arthur's waist. He hasn't shut up about his performance all evening, which Merlin probably would have found irritating a few days ago, but now seems weirdly endearing. He tries not to think about it.

"You were splendid. And loud."

"Really loud?"

"If it was a cartoon, you would have blown me back on my arse," Merlin informs him.

"I'd rather just blow you," Arthur grins at him in a way that makes certain parts of Merlin's anatomy very uncomfortable.

"Maybe later, Arthur," he promises, knowing it'll never happen. The singer moves his eyebrows up and down in a suggestive motion.

.

Arthur's lips are stained red from whatever that fruity cocktail was, and it makes Merlin smile, thinking about the fact that he likes girly drinks. It had come with a goddamn umbrella in it, for heavens' sake. Although it apparently had more alcohol in it that he'd thought. Or maybe Arthur was just a lightweight. Whatever it was, it had made him nearly incoherent. When Merlin had finally convinced him to leave the last bar, he'd asked him which hotel he was staying at, and received "your _mum's_ hotel!" as an answer. He'd asked again, but Arthur was too busy laughing (rather like a donkey, actually) to reply, so he had given up and decided to just take Arthur back to his flat.

"'M serious, Merlin," Arthur says, pushing ineffectually at Merlin and trying to stand by himself. "You should come with me."

"I _am_ with you," he says, only half-paying attention. The street signs are tricky to see in the dark; the flat is relatively new and he's not too familiar with this area yet.

"No, I mean it," pronounces Arthur. "'M very rich. You could come with me to... to... to pants." He frowns. "Not pants. France. Come with me to France." He looks askance at Merlin. "I'm big in Europe," he whispers. His breath smells like raspberries and vodka.

"Yes, Arthur, I know," Merlin says, finally locating his apartment building. "Up we go." He's glad he lives on the second floor; the building has sixteen levels and there's no way he'd be able to haul Arthur's weight up that far.

.

.

He manages to get Arthur tucked into his bed, tugging off his boots and sort of pushing him down and tightening the sheets around him so the singer is practically adhered to the mattress. Merlin makes sure he's on his side in case he, ew, vomits during the night or something, and then curls up on the couch in the sitting room. He's feeling a little... a little annoyed, and maybe a little sad, too. It's not fair for Arthur to do this to him, to make offers like that when he's smashed out of his mind. There's no way he'll remember it come morning.

.

Merlin's seconds away from sleep when a thin cry comes from his bedroom.

"You're really fucking needy, you know," he tells Arthur, staggering in. "What."

"You said you wouldn't leave me," Arthur accuses. His face is pale in the moonlight streaming in from the window.

"No, you said that," Merlin says. Arthur regards him with a serious look.

"Exactly," he says, as if that proves his point. Maybe it does. Merlin's too tired to think about it.

"Fine," he says, and lies down on top of the covers, next to Arthur. "Better?"He feels Arthur nod, and shuts his eyes. "Grand. Goodnight." The room is quiet for a few minutes, during which Merlin sinks back into half-sleep, until-

"Merlin?"

"What, Arthur?"

"Thanks."

"Yeah, okay, Arthur. Goodnight."

And that's how Merlin knows that even if Arthur doesn't remember everything he said in the morning, things are going to be alright.


End file.
